


Glorfindel's Cairn

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Reference sources:** J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Book of Lost Tales_. Vol. 2, p. 194-5  
Encyclopedia of Arda: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/default.htm  
The Sindarin Dictionary: http://www.jrrvf.com/~hisweloke/sindar/

**Author's Notes:** Before everyone starts beating me over the head with volume upon volume of Tolkien lore, yes, I _know_ that Glorfindel's grave got washed out with the rest of Beleriand, but I really, really wanted to write this fic, and being told that it wouldn't work just made me want to write it more. My life centers on literature and composition, and it is my firm belief that there is no story you cannot write if you have sufficient imaginative powers at your fingertips. So, I found myself an out. I hope that the reader can extend his or her suspension of disbelief to include this out; after all, I _am_ already asking you to believe in Middle-Earth as I see it. My thanks goes to everyone who told me it could be done, and especially to those who expressed their doubts, because all of you helped me shape this tale. *winks at the UCMEC*

That said, I need also mention that for the purposes of this fic, I chose to believe that Glorfindel of Imladris was the resurrected Glorfindel of Gondolin. Please do not leave me reviews for the purpose of telling me that one was not the other. I choose whatever side of the argument serves my fanfiction best at the time, and would just as readily claim that the two Glorfindels are entirely different elves if that was what the fic called for.

I have also taken some liberties with the speculated timeline for Glorfindel's resurrection, just because. This fic takes place around the fifth century of the Second Age.

Many thanks go to my beta readers, Nemis and Alena, for keeping me on track and pointing out all the little mistakes a girl can make when writing at midnight.

Now then, with the disclaimer and notes out of the way, I present you with this fanfiction in the hopes that you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As it is largely finished, you can expect a new posting once a week, or once every ten reviews. Whichever comes first.

 

**Glorfindel's Cairn**

 

A soft breeze stirred the plants adorning the mountain path, whispering delicate secrets to them as it traveled Arda. Flowers shivered, their golden petals shimmering like scales of golden armor in the pale sunlight that reached them that morning. They bowed their heads under the wind's caress, carrying its news to the rocks and soil below.

As the day passed, the wind departed, leaving the small flowers to reach for the waning light of the evening. The sun traveled its course, and a great shadow fell on the tiny plants, casting them into the shade of a long stone cairn, seemingly unworn by time.

Yet, the little flowers did not waver in this new, chill blackness. They stood tall and firm, still glistening with captured yellow light. Spear-shaped leaves spread wide around them, the flowers took what warmth remained to them in the day, and it was not until the sun disappeared behind the great peaks that the golden petals began to furl in upon themselves, settling the plants for the darker chill of night.

This was the grave of Glorfindel of Gondolin, head of the House of the Golden Flower. Set high in the mountain pass once known as Cristhorn, it marked a site rich with tragedy and triumph. Here, the golden-haired Elf-lord Glorfindel had slain a Balrog of Angband, purchasing his people's salvation from the burning demon with his own life. Here, the survivors of the Fall of Gondolin had wept for yet another fallen friend when Thorndor had carried the lord's broken body to them, and Tuor had raised the cairn over his companion's remains.

Then Arda trembled. The mountains cracked as the lands of Beleriand were shaken by the might of the Valar, and the floodwaters came. Cristhorn crumbled into the swirling sea, caught up by the waves and borne to the depths, there to rest until the end of time.

But the cairn and its flowers were snatched up but an unseen force. Their full purpose had not yet been served.

~*~*~*~

"Elrond!" Gil-galad called, searching the halls of his palace for his herald.

"My king!" the youthful half-elf responded gleefully, poking his dark head out from behind a pillar.

Not to be outdone, the golden-haired elf reading in a nearby corner cried, "Glorfindel!"  
King and herald both shot a look of amused disgust at their friend where he lounged in a wood-and-leather chair. Glorfindel raised his head and smiled innocently at them, as if to say, "I am above you. Have a nice day." Gil-galad and Elrond exchanged a mysterious look. The younger elf nodded and turned his back to his companions. When he straightened, a bowl of chilled grapes went flying towards Glorfindel's head.

With a howl of mock outrage, Glorfindel threw his book over his head and ducked, weathering his friend's projectile attack with exaggerated Elvish aplomb. The wooden bowl bounced harmlessly against the floor, falling short of its target, but the grapes thudded against the leather binding of Glorfindel's tome, snapping free of their stems and rolling into the elf's hair and lap. Using all the calm of a frozen river, Glorfindel emerged from underneath his book as the last of the grapes slid off the book's cover. He pulled one of the plump green treats form his hair and popped it delicately into his mouth.

"Thank you, Elrond. You read my mind," he complimented his young friend.

Elrond scowled for a moment, annoyed that Glorfindel still had the dominant position in their game, but his displeasure soon dissolved into laughter at the sight of Gil-galad, who was hunched over in a desperate effort to maintain his kingly dignity. Unfortunately, the Noldo's efforts were for naught, as snorts periodically escaped in favor of the laughter Gil-galad was holding back. Elrond collapsed into a chair next to the fruit-laden table that had only recent held his ammunition and began chortling himself. This set Glorfindel off, and before long, all three Elf-lords were alternately clinging to their sides and wiping away tears of mirth.

"You," gasped Elrond, "you wanted something . . . my . . . " He sniggered in a very ignoble manner and fought for the breath to go on. "My lord."

"Yes, I . . . I did," Gil-galad answered, as desperate for air as Elrond was. "But I can't ask . . . " The king snorted with laughter that refused to be contained, and found himself taken hostage by near-drunken giggles for a long moment. When he could finally speak again, he forced out, "Can't ask you with Glorfindel here."

From across the room, Glorfindel plucked another grape out of his braided tresses and asked casually, "Why should that matter? I'm always with one of the two of you. Where would you be without a babysitter?"

Annoyed, Gil-galad reached for an apple and hefted it threateningly in his large hand. "Because it's a secret, my dear vine, and you shouldn't be hearing such things. Before you know it, every woman in Lindon will get wind of what is for Elrond's ears only."

Undeterred, Glorfindel lobbed a grape at his king and watched as the other elf casually caught the fruit in his mouth. Sighing in regret for the loss of a perfectly good chance to hit Gil-galad in the head with something, Glorfindel stretched his legs out and swallowed a few grapes of his own. When his mouth was clear for polite speech, he sighed, "This would be about next month, wouldn't it?"

Gil-galad sat bolt upright in his chair, eyebrows raised in indignation. "Absolutely not! Next month is a wholly open topic. Elrond and I plan to get you drunk, steal your clothes, dress you in a pink gown and parade you on the ramparts for all to see."

"You forgot the diamond tiara," Elrond added blithely as he snatched the apple from Gil-galad.

"Ah, that I did," Gil-galad confirmed. "Thank you, Elrond."

"You're welcome, my lord."

Clearly, Glorfindel didn't believe either of his friends. The smooth skin of his brow was furrowed with distress, and his green eyes were darkened by his thoughts. He gave up collecting grapes from his clothes and set both fruit and book aside. "You needn't concern yourselves with next month, my friends," he said softly. His hands lit on the arms of the chair, but his slender fingers plucked at the leather ties there instead of resting quietly. "I will be well enough. No distractions are required."

Suddenly as subdued as their friend, Gil-galad and Elrond leaned forward in their chairs, staring hard at Glorfindel with matching storm-grey eyes.

"Glorfindel," Gil-galad ventured, "we cannot pretend to understand what the coming time means for you, just as we cannot pretend that it does not worry us. We have known you for many long years now, my friend, and yet you still push us away from you whenever the subject is raised."   
Across the room, Glorfindel sighed and sank down in his chair, closing his eyes--perhaps against his own fear.

Concerned, Elrond left his own seat and went to his friend's side. He lowered a hand to Glorfindel's shoulder, noting how dark his skin was in comparison to the older elf's--the mark of his half-elven heritage, a heritage that Glorfindel was more familiar with than Elrond himself. "Glorfindel," he urged gently, "we see you suffer each year. It tears at our hearts to see your light dimmed. You told me once that sometimes it is not enough to face one's demons alone."  
Glorfindel flinched and opened his eyes as Elrond said "demons," and the younger elf immediately regretted his wording. He knelt down in front of his friend, his searching gaze easily reading the dark depths of memory in Glorfindel's face. "I am sorry," he apologized, taking Glorfindel's hands. "That was poorly done."

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, it wasn't, my friend. You speak wisdom, but . . . " He trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish.

" . . . but this is a demon you have always faced alone," Gil-galad supplied, also rising from his chair. Instead of joining his friends, he began to pace the room, long strides slowly taking him through a restless pattern. "Glorfindel," he finally said, "I know that you have stood in solitude against your fears and memories for over a century, now, but have you considered that perhaps there is a better way?"

Uncomfortable with the conversation, Glorfindel drew back from Elrond and managed to rise and squeeze past his younger friend to begin pacing as well. One long hand pulled agitatedly at the fabric of his tunic sleeves, the muscles jumping lightly beneath his pale flesh as they worked. "I do not wish to burden you," he finally answered, the words tumbling from his lips like pebbles down a waterfall.

"You cannot avoid that," Elrond gently informed him. "We are your friends, as we continually remind you, and we will burden ourselves regardless of your wishes."

That earned a weak smile from Glorfindel. Gil-galad decided to push the advantage. He turned to face his golden-haired friend, but kept his distance. He did not want Glorfindel to feel trapped. "What is it that troubles you so at this time? Elrond and I have our suspicions, as you well know, but you have never told us."

"That is because--" Glorfindel sighed. "Because I didn't want to burden you," he finished with a morose laugh.

Elrond smiled and spread his palms. "Well? You've already let one horse escape. Why not the whole herd?"

Seeing that he was effectively caught--if not by his friends but by his own morals--Glorfindel bowed his head in acquiescence. "Three weeks from now is the anniversary of the Fall of Gondolin . . . and of my return to Arda. Was either of these one of your suspicions?"

"Gondolin, yes," Gil-galad said softly. "But the other . . . We did not know."

"There was no reason you should," Glorfindel told him, his own voice hushed. Quick steps carried him to one of the long, wide windows in the hall. The Elf-lord perched on its sill, his face turned to the glass. Bright sunlight washed him in gold, glittering in the spun riches of his hair and touching his skin with translucent color. "When we first met, I had already been in Arda for six weeks."

"And you did not think to mention this to us?" Elrond asked, an eyebrow raised in skepticism.   
A quiet laugh lightened Glorfindel's grim expression for a moment. "I did, but at the time I would have had a little difficulty."

Gil-galad nodded, remembering how he and Elrond had first found Glorfindel--a naked elf, wandering confused and alone in the forest. It had been nearly a week before Glorfindel had spoken to them, though he had seemed otherwise fully capable--caring for and feeding himself, doing what he could to answer their questions with gestures. When Gil-galad and Elrond had found Glorfindel, they had only recently escaped a troop of orcs that had separated them from a fighting company, and were making their way back to Lindon. Many of their supplies had been lost, including writing materials, so short of scratching letters in the dirt, Glorfindel had had few means of communicating with them.

"I suppose it should have occurred to us," Gil-galad stated wryly. "The arithmetic is fairly simple."

"Perhaps that is why it didn't," Glorfindel observed, turning his face back to his friends. "Be that as it may, when I was finally able to speak with you, the last thing on my mind was detailing the first six weeks of my renewed existence. My own memories of that time are fragmented, to say the least. I remember waking. I know that I traveled and ate and drank. I know that I was aware of who and what I was. Beyond that . . . " Glorfindel shook his head, "Much is blurred until our first meeting."

Elrond folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, one questioning eyebrow arched. "The Fall of Gondolin is not the only thing that troubles you, then."

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, it is not." He swallowed anxiously and took a deep breath. "My death troubles me . . . My death, and my resurrection."

"Why?" Gil-galad asked.

"Because it is difficult for me to connect both lives. I remember little of my time in the Halls of Waiting. Often, it seems as though there is a great void between my life in this age and that which came before. Sometimes, I find myself doubting everything that happened.

"Sometimes, I find myself doubting if I'm really here."

Alarmed, Gil-galad and Elrond stared at their friend, speechless. Neither had suspected this. They exchanged a glance, and as one chose to remain where they were and leave Glorfindel his space for the time being. He needed a chance to pour out his troubles into a wide pool. Neither high king nor herald wished to be the dam that stopped the flow.

"I can still feel the flames, they way they snapped at me like its whip. I think that if I turn around, I will see my people--the Gondolindrim--huddled behind my command, desperately seeking to protect the young and the wounded.

"I feel it most on the anniversary, and there are times when I fear that I will slip into that memory and not return."

Glorfindel stood and approached his friends, the brilliant color of his eyes dimmed with pain. "My own end does not seem entirely real to me, and it haunts my life here."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

Later that night, Elrond and Gil-galad sat in closed counsel in the king's chambers. Each was casually dressed, Elrond in soft green and brown, Gil-galad in white and muted gold. A pitcher sat between them, its glass cavity half-filled with watered-down wine. Silver cups rested in the elves' hands, the dark contents swirling restlessly as they gestured to each other through their conversation.

"We need to do something!" Elrond was insisting. His cheeks were flushed with concern and frustration. It was all he could do not to throw his hands wildly about and spill the wine on Gil-galad and himself.

"I know that, el-hên, I do," Gil-galad said soothingly, automatically addressing the young elf by his childhood nickname. "But it is not so simple as consoling him with a pat on the back and a warm cup of milk."

"Of course it isn't," Elrond agreed, forcing himself to put the cup down and calm his agitated hands, "but my heart will not allow me to wait quietly for a solution."

Gil-galad smiled indulgently and patted Elrond on the shoulder. "One day it will. I understand that you still carry the passion of youth with you, Elrond. But passion will not help Glorfindel right now. A clear head is best in this case. Think. What is it that troubles our enigmatic friend?"

"Differentiating between his life in Gondolin and his life here . . . Believing his own death . . . Believing that the confrontation with the Balrog is past."

"Exactly, my young scholar," Gil-galad confirmed, slamming his cup down against the table for emphasis. "So one can infer that Glorfindel needs a means of cementing his place in the here and now, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then that is what we must do."

Elrond nodded hastily, then blurted out, "But how? Do we search for a survivor of Gondolin? You know as well as I that many have been slain or gone into the West."

"That they have," Gil-galad replied, "and so we must turn elsewhere for aid."

"But who?"

Gil-galad only smiled and poured them both more wine. "Not who, my friend. What."

~*~*~*~

The conversation was taken up again the next morning.

"Gil-Galad, you cannot mean to pursue this route. It leads nowhere but into a box canyon!" Elrond argued with his friend and lord as they walked to a meeting with delegates from the Havens. The young herald of the high king was clad in the colors of Gil-galad's house, soft blue velvet, shining white silk and silver brocade worked into long, layered robes of office. He tugged impatiently at his stiff collar, dragging it away from his neck.

"I will pursue my course, and Iluvatar willing, find an invaluable treasure at the end of the canyon you speak of," Gil-galad answered calmly. He, too, was dressed in the colors of his house, but the high king's robes were richer and heavier than those of his herald. Nevertheless, he wore them with a grace that Elrond had yet to learn.

Exasperated, Elrond stopped and pulled Gil-galad aside. "This is madness, Gil-galad. The whole of Arda has been changed since the time of Gondolin. Nothing remains of the valleys or passes our friend once knew! You will not find what you seek. We will have greater fortune if we seek one of the Gondolindrim."

"Perhaps," Gil-galad conceded, "but what would that achieve? If we did find such an elf, would he or she have the heart to recall the grief of those days? Nay, I will not imperil an innocent, even for Glorfindel's sake."

"But to find his grave . . . Gil-galad, it is too much!"

The High King of the Noldor shook his head and said grimly, "No, my friend. It is our best hope."

~*~*~*~

Afternoon saw Elrond locked away in the libraries of Lindon, as was often his wont, but with more concentrated intent than he usually employed. Most days, Elrond sought out the quiet, contemplative solitude of the massive rooms and chose whatever writing came to hand first. Not now, however. He was engaged in a search at Gil-galad's behest, and would not draw away from it unless it was necessary to ward off suspicion from Glorfindel.

Stretched out on the ancient oak table before the half-elf were two maps, one of Arda as it was before the War of Wrath, and one of the lands of Middle-earth as they now were--with the greater part of Beleriand and all it had held disappeared beneath the Great Sea.

Elrond sighed and tapped idly at the small black dot that marked Lindon. The city was his starting point on this day, as it had been since the young lord's seventh year. That was the year Gil-galad had found Elrond and Elros, the former playing under a waterfall as his twin brother splashed in the small lake at the cascade's foot. Gil-galad seemed to have a knack for finding displaced elves, Elrond mused. Though Gil-galad was a mere eight decades older then the half-elf, less than an eye-blink in the Elvish measurement of time, Elrond still looked on him as a father. Glorfindel, he supposed, was something of a foundling brother, then. Elrond had been twenty years shy of his sixth century when he and Gil-galad had stumbled upon the golden-haired elf--or rather, when the golden-haired elf had stumbled upon them.

Now, a little over a hundred years later, Elrond found himself searching for a dear friend's grave, a part of Elvish history that, he was certain, had been washed away in the floods and quakes that had claimed the Elvish haunts of the First Age. Those torrents had broken and hidden the lands of his forebears, taking all physical evidence of their civilizations with them, save only the elves and what few possessions they had preserved.

Elrond could easily find what Gil-galad wished him too if he used logic and took the floods into account. _All we need do is pray Ulmo give Glorfindel leave to walk upon the bottom of the ocean, with fish instead of eagles to guide him down a sunken mountain pass_ , the young elf thought irritably. His was a fool's errand, he was certain. What chance was there that Glorfindel's grave had been preserved when so much else had not? Did the Valar then sweep up every burial place in Beleriand and deposit them elsewhere in Arda, so that the present-day inhabitants of Middle-Earth could seek them at will? He doubted that such was the case, else he would be tripping over a cairn every time he walked through a door.

_Stop that, Elrond_ , he berated himself as he stared once again at the maps. _You help neither yourself, nor Glorfindel by acting this way. And if Gil-galad saw you like this--he'd either shake you silly for insensitivity or laugh his ears off at your temper._ The image did little to help Elrond's mood, and he dropped his head to the maps in disgust. He was tempted to start pounding it against the table, but that would bring someone running faster than all of his silent bemoaning of the task at hand. Knowing his fortune, that someone would likely be an elf whose name started with "G," armed with whatever weapon was at a moment's command, searching for orcs or some other great evil that had somehow bypassed the security of Lindon and rendered the high king's herald unconscious.

That would hardly do.

And so, cornered as he was between Gil-galad's insistence and the vagaries of lore and research, Elrond Peredhil gave up his afternoon and his sanity for lost, and began to search the shelves of the library for even the most obscure mention of Gondolin and its surroundings, the House of the Golden Flower, and deceased elves and their monuments.

~*~*~*~

Glorfindel of Gondolin, most recently Glorfindel of Lindon, found himself faced with a most vexing situation. It seemed that his young friend Elrond was nowhere to be found, and not to be disturbed. The second detail was courtesy of the High King Gil-galad, whom Glorfindel also counted amongst his friends--most of the time. This day found him glumly considering a change in their relationship from "friend" to "target." The noble king had been dancing circles around Glorfindel all day, ushering him here and there, keeping him busy so that every free moment that presented itself was soon crushed beneath the light but insistent boots of a royal Noldo's will.

_Those two are up to something_ , Glorfindel thought glumly, _and I know exactly what, even if they are hiding like dwarves in caves._ His sour disposition had been growing throughout the day, birthed when a young colt had landed a hearty kick against the elf's thigh that morning. Glorfindel had been inspecting the progress of the king's young stock, with the intent of submitting his suggestions for each horse's future use by the end of the week.

At the moment, he was seriously considering listing the colt in question under, "Pleasure Horse for the High King."

"No, no, you musn't bother yourself about Elrond," Gil-galad was saying. "He's busy with important matters, and you're--"

"--not to disturb him, I know," Glorfindel finished tiredly.

"Exactly," Gil-galad said brightly. "He's busy, and so are you. Here."

Glorfindel took the scroll that Gil-galad handed him as if it were a snake being offered by Melkor. He unrolled it with the same caution he would exercise in keeping hold of such a snake, and studied the contents as if they might blind him at any moment. "What is this?" he moaned to his king, grateful that it was a private audience in the other elf's chamber.

"Dinner plans," Gil-galad answered unconcernedly. "You've more experience with holding such feasts than I. The thought occurred to me this afternoon: Why not let Glorfindel see to it? Everyone knows that social functions are hardly my forte, and it has been some time since Elves of the Havens came to Lindon on official business. Such an event requires a grand dinner at the very least, don't you think?"

"But Gil-galad ... the dinner is set for tomorrow night! There is no time for such an elaborate occasion as you seem to intend," the golden-haired elf protested, thrusting the scroll back at his friend.

"Nonsense," the king huffed, pushing the scroll towards Glorfindel. "If there is a single elf in this city who can achieve such marvelous feats, it is you, my friend. Now then, I know that you have much to do. I suggest you get started."

Glorfindel was still grumbling loudly when Gil-galad shoved him out the door and closed the great oak portal in his face.

~*~*~*~

Four days later, Gil-galad was still busying himself with distracting the resurrected elf of Gondolin, and Elrond was still caught up in seemingly hopeless studies. For his own part, Glorfindel was fuming. Quite often, he found it nearly impossible to be civil towards his so-called friends, and was forced to summon up the chilly courtesy that he had formerly reserved for distasteful visitors to court.

Gil-galad was finding it difficult to maintain his charades and keep Glorfindel out of Elrond's way. As a wise king ought, the elf understood that Glorfindel could not be entirely ignorant of his friends' machinations, but Gil-galad was confident that Glorfindel was ignorant of the more important details. Had someone challenged him to do so, the high king would have bet the entire treasury of Lindon that Glorfindel only knew that the plot had something to do with the coming anniversary.

"We've little time to achieve our ends," Gil-galad muttered softly as he studied trade reports in his private study. Even if Elrond could find a probable location of Glorfindel's tomb, there was no guarantee that it would be close enough that it could be reached with relative ease, or even that the three could find the time and resources to travel. In Gil-galad's mind, it was necessary that the trio go together, with as few others as possible. Glorfindel would need his family from this age, this life, to support him when he faced the reality of what had happened to him.

And if the tomb could not be found ... Gil-galad honestly could not say what he would do. So far, Glorfindel's unease about his death and resurrection had done little more than make him testy one week out of every year for the past century, but Gil-galad understood, as all elves did, how grief and uncertainty can eat away at a heart, leaving a barren shell behind to shrivel and crumble into dust. Without resolution, Glorfindel would pass through the years, always on a path towards that end. Gil-galad could not allow that, and he was determined that a solution be found within the month. He would wait a year only if forced to, but no more.

A knock at the study door roused Gil-galad from his thoughts, and the king realized with chagrin that he had partially crumpled the paper in his hands. He quickly set it down and smoothed the edges as best he could, then hid it under a heavy book of trade regulations.

"Come in," he invited. He was not surprised to see the door open on Elrond. The younger elf was bedraggled, his eyes tired and red from constant reading, his fingers slightly curled with writer's cramp and stained with ink, his hair hastily pulled back in a ponytail. Old hunting clothes hung on his oddly heavy yet light frame, their dark brown colors nearly concealing the leather-bound book clasped in his arms, even from Elvish eyes.

"Gil-galad," Elrond greeted shortly. He stepped inside the door and pushed it closed with a foot, then approached the king's desk and slapped the book down on top of trade regulations. "I've found it."

~*~*~*~

**el-hên:** star-child, _Sindarin_


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

Disbelieving, Gil-galad turned to his friend and former ward, asking, "You're certain?"

"Yes, I'm certain!" Elrond replied. "I was certain the last five times you asked me, and I will still be certain when you ask again in a few moments."

"So, Glorfindel's tomb was not washed away when Beleriand was taken?"

Elrond sighed. His patience was in danger of becoming a martyr to his cause. "Yes and no. The tales are not clear, and I do not know how much is elaboration on bare, simple fact. The Cristhorn was destroyed just as most of Beleriand was, but it would seem that somehow, the cairn was transferred to a new location."

"But how?" pressed Gil-galad. "How would someone's--anyone's--burial place be transferred like that? _Why_ would it be transferred like that?"

"Does 'how' or 'why' truly make a difference, Gil-galad? The truth of it is--or so I pray--that Glorfindel _can_ see his grave because the Valar, for whatever purpose, placed it safely within the extant lands of Middle-earth."

Gil-galad ran his hands through his hair, gently combing out the tight braids that he had worn all day. They dropped in loose waves over the placid, smooth surface of his unbound hair, slowly straightening and blending with the dark ocean as his fingers combed through them. Elrond could see that the king was tired and excited at once, filled with exhaustion born of rule and his newfound relief. The younger elf could understand a part of that. It was the way he had felt when his brother had first chosen mortal life--suddenly old, tired and fearful, but proud of what Elros was setting out to achieve.

"We should be able to reach the site within a week if we travel at a steady pace," Elrond informed his king. "That leaves us ten days to make arrangements. Three horses should be sufficient, if we bring those mounts who have proven their stamina. The pass is not high, and by all accounts, there is vegetation, water and shelter in profusion."

"Ten days," Gil-galad whispered. "Ten days . . . Which does not allow for delays on the path . . . " He stood from his place behind the desk and walked to the long windows gracing the western wall of his study. The sun was setting in an explosion of color, red and purple dancing somberly through the ocean of pink and light blue hues that graced the sky. Already, Elrond knew, plans were forming in Gil-galad's mind. The trio--for Elrond knew nothing else would satisfy his king--would set out early and travel at a brisk pace until they neared the end of their journey, at which time they would slow and enjoy, if they could, the nature around them. Even the most minute detail of provisions for the travelers and for Lindon would be carefully etched out in the king's designs, leaving little or nothing to chance.

As if to confirm Elrond's speculations, Gil-galad turned from the window and announced, "We leave in seven days. No more or less. Glorfindel will not be told of our plans until the fifth day hence, and only then so that he may have time to make preparations of his own. I will not give him the opportunity to slip away from us if he is so inclined."

Elrond felt a cold shudder run down his spine at Gil-galad's choice of words, and from the dark tint of the other's eyes, he could see that the king felt it also.

No, Glorfindel would not slip away from them, not so long as they had the power and resources to hold him.

~*~*~*~

_Now I know that they are planning something, as certain as if Ilúvatar himself whispered it in my ear_ , Glorfindel thought as he watched Elrond and Gil-galad hurriedly sign papers and pen letters at a desk. The three friends were in the same hall they had occupied when the issue of the coming anniversary--the source of all this secrecy and fuss, Glorfindel was sure--had first been raised. Glorfindel sat once more in the wood and leather chair, holding a book before him, but not reading it. His eyes were instead focused over the top of the page, at the blue-and-silver-clad forms of his friends.

_They cannot think to hide their designs from me, not entirely, so why be so closemouthed?_ he wondered idly. He knew that the pair was planning something in regards to the coming week; they'd been at it for four days, now, like a persistent shower that lingered over farmlands, but refused to give more than a bucket's worth of drink each day. Obviously, it did not bother them that he could see something of what they were up to, so long as he was kept ignorant of the specifics. They also knew that he would avoid a confrontation on any matters relating to the coming day at all costs. The topic was unsettling for him, and falling into the trap of dreams and memories early was not a desirable situation. He would wait for them to come on their own, on the anniversary of day that he had witnessed Gondolin fall, and the following days wherein he recalled his people's flight, and the Balrog's terrifying heat.

"Isn't it time yet?"

Glorfindel quickly returned his eyes to the book as Elrond spoke, not wanting to chance the young elf's notice. He scanned the words on the page with idle interest, though, the greater force of his energies concentrated on the discussion that Elrond was having with Gil-galad.

"I don't know. Should we not finish this first?" Gil-galad asked. His voice was hushed, but only enough to avoid disturbing Glorfindel's pretense of reading.

"It's been four days, Gil-galad. You said that on the fifth--"

"I know," the older elf interrupted. "I know, and I intend to but--"

Now it was Elrond's turn to interrupt. "But what? The timing will not improve."

"Nor will it worsen."

"It might," Elrond shot back, unaccountably--or so Glorfindel thought--cross.

Gil-galad sighed and laid aside his quill; the rustle of its stiff length against paper even told Glorfindel where the instrument had been set. He concentrated on reading his book as Gil-galad's chair creaked, soon followed by its twin, which had seated Elrond a scant second before.

"Glorfindel," Gil-galad stated crisply.

_Ah, the King's Command_ , the summoned elf thought wryly, using the teasing name he and Elrond had applied to Gil-galad's authoritative tones.

Aloud, he said, "Yes, my lord?"

"We will be leaving on a journey into the Blue Mountains the day after tomorrow," the king announced. "Elrond and I have made provisions for the government and the household in our absence, and ordered preparations for travel. It remains only for the three of us to choose our mounts and oversee the final provisioning of our company."

A little taken aback at the brisk orders, Glorfindel arched a golden eyebrow in mild surprise. "I must admit, I heard not the faintest whisper of such plans. Are you well, my lord king?"

"This journey is not for my welfare, Glorfindel," Gil-galad said gently. "It is for yours."

_I told them not to concern themselves._ Irritably, Glorfindel snapped his book shut and set it aside. Just a few weeks ago, grapes would have rolled out of his hair and down his green and gold clothing when he stood to face his two friends. Gil-galad had some small advantage over Glorfindel in height, but Elrond was shorter than both of them thanks to his father's blood, and was required to cast his gaze upward as the full-blooded elves faced each other, monoliths of determination.

"My lord, you will forgive me," Glorfindel began coldly, formally, "but there is no journey that will aid my welfare in the matter to which you allude, save perhaps one through time so that I might alter the events of those days and their eventual outcome."

"Glorfindel--" From his tone, it was clear Gil-galad was prepared to order Glorfindel as his king to submit, but Elrond cut in before the other elf was able to finish, heading off the confrontation that was brewing on both sides.

"We know that you still grieve for Gondolin," he blurted out, his words falling quickly, but with the grace of wisdom that already touched his young brow. "I grew up amongst the Exiles of that fair city. I heard my father's memories of it on the few occasions he bestowed his presence on our home, and I heard the memories of other elves who traveled with you out of that place. I know what it is to see the haven you loved consigned to flames and death, to be reduced to skulking under rocks and behind smoldering timbers, only to have to fight and flee the next moment.

"You grieve for what was, and what could have been, but you do not open your heart to the truth of things. We would take you somewhere that, with Ilúvatar's blessing, will give you a chance to close the journal of that life and begin to inscribe a new one." Elrond's eyes pleaded with Glorfindel as he spoke, their depths warming to a deep, bluish gray like the sea freshly revealed at dawn. His words were hypnotic in quality, delivered by a gentle voice backed with steel, from a mind that constantly absorbed and considered knowledge and experience.

Elrond was right. Glorfindel was trapped between lives, unable to find the point where his role as leader and protector of the Gondolindrim ended. Here, in this time and place, the elves of that descent were few, and most of those had been mere babes when the city had fallen, if indeed they had been alive then. Without his people to protect, without their battles to fight, Glorfindel was displaced.

Swallowing against the anxiety that disquieted his stomach, the ancient elf asked softly, "Where is it you would take me?"


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

Glorfindel looked over the tiny map once again, his narrow finger tracing a loosely wound line that connected Lindon to a point in the south-eastern end of the Blue Mountains. Though the map was too small to show details, Elrond claimed there was a pass there that was infrequently used, but wide and forested, which led to another, smaller pass that curved back through the mountains towards the city. It was this second pass that Glorfindel was concerned with, for it was here, Elrond claimed, that his cairn stood.

"At first I thought it was simply an error," Elrond said softly, as if lowering his voice would spare Glorfindel some of the shock and disorientation of the situation. "The entry was based on the descriptions of a small band of dwarves seeking new mining opportunities in the mountains. But then I began to search for similar references, and I found this."

The half-elf pulled a book from the shelves beside his favored desk in the library and set it down in front of Glorfindel. Dark, worn leather bound the volume's yellowing pages, and the book was stiff in Glorfindel's hands as he gently opened it to a passage marked with a fragment of emerald green ribbon.

_The pass is wide, but the forests make it difficult, if not impossible, to bring a large company through. As such, it is not a feasible trade route, for despite it's low elevation and comfortable weather, the close-growing trees would prevent carts or substantial numbers of laden animals from traveling through it._

One could recommend cutting down the trees, but I do not feel it a wise decision. This is a sacred place. All creatures sing Iluvatar's song here. An elf may have once made his home here, for I saw a cairn of Elvish design raised in a clearing just off the trail when I sought a place to rest one night. Many small flowers grew there, but I could not identify them with any confidence, as their petals had already been drawn in for the night. I believe the flowers to be a bright yellow, if the colors the peek out from the buds are an accurate indication. What could have brought an elf to death in this place, I do not know, but perhaps it is his memory that wards it.

His hands shaking almost imperceptibly, Glorfindel set the book aside and closed his eyes against the swelling emotions inside him. He lowered his face into his hands and took several slow, deep breaths. _Elbereth_ , he thought, _how has this come to be?_

"Glorfindel? Glorfindel, are you all right?"

The ancient elf waved off the concerned inquiries of his king and muttered into his hands, "I'll be fine. It's just ... "

"It's a shock," Elrond observed softly.

Glorfindel opened his eyes and looked up, his hands still held protectively in front of his face, as if to shield him from further unsettling discoveries. "Yes, it is."

"You didn't know that it was here, in Middle-earth," Gil-galad stated, as if his friend's surprise was not enough evidence of that fact.

"No. After I was ... resurrected, I never set foot in the Blue Mountains until my first weeks with you." A wry chuckle shook Glorfindel's lean frame, and he offered a half-smile to his friends, though tears were building in his eyes. "Námo spoke to me of many things before he released me, but never this."

Elrond put a gentle hand on Glorfindel's shoulder, brushing his long, silky tresses back as he did so. "He only told you to return to life and keep company with the two most troublesome elves in Middle-earth?"

This time, Glorfindel's laughter was more genuine, less strained. He gripped Elrond's hand in his own and nodded. "Exactly."

"If he intended you to distract us from other trouble-making, he made his choice wisely," Gil-galad commented. He smiled at his friends and offered Glorfindel a hand. "Come. We've preparations to make, and long hours of riding in the days to come."

Glorfindel grasped the offered hand and raised himself from his chair. He automatically took his place at the king's left hand, but Elrond resigned his usual position at Gil-galad's right to walk beside Glorfindel.

As the trio strode out of the library and towards the dining halls, Elrond leaned over to Glorfindel and mock-whispered, "There isn't _that_ much left to do. Gil-galad's only frightened of the cook's ladle if he's late for dinner."

A snort of laughter escaped Glorfindel's lips before he could stop it, and he ducked quickly to avoid Gil-galad's retaliating hand, leaving Elrond to get knocked in the head by the high king.

~*~*~*~

Two days later, the trio was gathered at the king's stables, holding light packs similar in design to the saddlebags of mortal Men, but designed to be comfortably slung across a horse's withers without the aid of saddle or surcingle. The contents made no sound as the sacks--each roughly the size of an elf's head--were settled on the horses' backs. Glorfindel stood close to his mount's head, whispering softly in the long-limbed mare's ear. She flared her dark nostrils, and her warm, deep brown coat shone as her skin quivered against the season's flies. Her long, flaxen tail swiped lazily at the insects as she listened to Glorfindel speak.

From his place at his dark bay gelding's side, Gil-galad smiled and nudged Elrond. "He's as courteous to the mares as he is to the ladies. It's a wonder that we do not find him bedded down in the stables after a night of hearty drink."

Elrond chuckled and carefully plucked a burr from his strawberry roan's candy-striped forelock. She pushed her forehead against his knuckles, demanding a rub. The elf-lord oblidged her, but his eyes fixed on Glorfindel and remained there. "You'd think," he began, just loud enough for Glorfindel could hear, "that an elf of his nature and experience would spend more time in the breeding sheds and less in the training arena."

If his friends' jibes affected him, Glorfindel showed no sign. He continued to whisper to his mare until she nudged his chest. Then he smiled at her and took a handful of mane before swinging himself onto her narrow back and settling a handsbreath behind her high withers. Taking the cue, Gil-galad and Elrond mounted their own horses and fell in beside Glorfindel.

As Elrond drew close, Glorfindel leaned over and displayed a benign smile. "I do believe I've seen you with the mares often enough, my young stallion," he teased mildly.

Elrond's jaw dropped, and he sputtered to deny the implications of Glorfindel's words, but speech would not come to him. Gil-galad bent over his horse's neck, laughing so hard he looked more like a drunken brigand than a king.

"It bodes well that you are amused, my lord," Glorfindel said far too innocently, "for, if I am not mistaken, you've spent your share of time with the fillies."

Now it was Gil-galad's turn to gawk. Elrond smiled grimly at his mentor and bowed mockingly. "It would seem that our friend's powers of observation have not waned," he said dryly, but Gil-galad easily read the message in the half-elf's eyes. _I almost prefer his moping to this ... You do realize that this debt cannot go unpaid._

Smoothing his dignity with courtly grace, Gil-galad straightened and urged his horse forward. "Come, my friends. We've a week of travel ahead of us, and I for one would rather depart Lindon without fanfare. The opportunity is a rare one."

Gil-galad knew that Elrond understood his own hidden message. _We've a week to render payment in full, and a vast wilderness of opportunities lies before us._

Whatever his feelings towards the journey, Glorfindel would not lack for entertainment.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

"Oh, come, Gil-galad! You'd have done the same!" Elrond cried, waving a stick in his king's direction.

"I most certainly would not have!" the elf in question protested. "You've the mind of a rabbit, and I know precisely who's responsible for giving it to you."

From his place beside Elrond, Glorfindel glanced up at the king and smirked. "Really, I thought you taught better values than that."

The king sputtered and waved his hands ineffectually at the blond elf for a minute before spitting out, "If I'd a wife, she'd skin me alive for associating with the two of you."

"If you'd a wife, _you'd_ skin _me_ alive for associating with _her_ ," Glorfindel observed, ducking quickly to avoid the handful of dirt Gil-galad sent his direction.

"Why you degenerate-"

"Peace!" Elrond pleaded, hardly able to speak through his laughter. "Peace, my friends. Enough, else you'll convince the horses that we are mad."

"At which point they'll gallop for Lindon as fast as may be," Gil-galad added. "They've more brains than the three of us combined."

"And more wives," snickered Glorfindel. He was forced to scramble back from the fire as his two friends leapt on him, but he wasn't quick enough to evade them both. Elrond tangled a hand in his jerkin, and Gil-galad clawed at a boot.

Within moments, the three lords were tussling on the ground like schoolboys. Any concept of sides soon dissolved, and the elves struggled to pin whomever they could grab. Elrond often found himself forced to the bottom of the pile, lacking Glorfindel's advantage of lithe speed and Gil-galad's sheer size and strength. Several times, though, the half-elf used his lesser height to his benefit, slipping through openings that his taller companions could never have used.  
In the end, all three lay side by side on the ground, breathing hard, their hair a tangled mess of dirt and leaves, their clothes twisted and crumpled about them. Their cheeks were flushed from the frantic activity, but the night air quickly cooled them. They remained as they were for a moment, staring up at the stars that glittered through the canopy.

Elrond stirred first, and kicked lightly at Gil-galad's shin. "Kindly take that tree limb from atop my knee," he said.

The older elf dug an elbow into Glorfindel's ribs, stating, "Your king bids you remove your knobby joints from his person."

With a theatrical sigh, Glorfindel rolled to his feet, half-heartedly jabbing Gil-galad in the stomach with his elbow. The king grunted, but soon followed, leaving Elrond to his own devices. As the two older elves began pulling leaves from their hair and sticks from their clothes, the young herald remained stretched on the ground, his grey eyes glistening like hematite in the firelight.

"His star shines brightly tonight," Elrond murmured.

Gil-galad and Glorfindel paused in their ministrations. A second pair of grey eyes and one of green gave their attention to the sky, and to the white pinprick that interested Elrond so.

"It does indeed," Gil-galad said softly, well used to Elrond's fascination with the bright star that was his true father, Eärendil. Many a night had he spent with Elrond, gazing up at the stars, when nightmares had troubled the young elf's sleep. Elros, too, had often watched the progress of the star through the night, for he suffered many of the same nightmares as his brother. When the twins neared adulthood, they no longer sought Gil-galad to sooth their fears, but he often looked down from his window to see one or both of them standing in the gardens, stormy grey eyes fixed on the night sky, dusky cheeks stained with glistening tears.

"He was always fond of the ocean," Glorfindel mused, breaking the still silence with the soft voice of other memories. "Even in Gondolin, where the call of the sea was hushed by mountains. Still he heard Ulmo's trumpets and longed to follow them. Much like his father was he in that respect."

Elrond's gaze drifted away from his father, taking in the flesh and blood visage of his friend. He marked, as did Gil-galad, the lines of weary suffering that had appeared in the pale features of the elf. The flames of their campfire crackled and danced, warming the air about the trio, but their reflection in Glorfindel's eyes was cold and terrible, as if Gondolin were again burning. Elrond suspected that indeed it was, at least within Glorfindel's mind. As they neared their destination, the cheerful moments like the ones that had just passed grew fewer. The joy of those moments was longer in coming and quicker to leave, easily ended by the slightest trigger of Glorfindel's melancholy.

Sensing his companion's concerned gazes, Glorfindel shook himself and returned his attention to parting leaf from hair. He offered a weak smile and said, "Your father was an endearing child. It pleases me that the same brightness of spirit is to be found in his son."

The words were sincere, but sadness marred the intent. Elrond recognized that they were in part a distraction from Glorfindel's mood, meant to warm the hearts of his companions and direct their attention to Eärendil and his sons. If Glorfindel wished to concentrate on such things, neither high king nor herald would stop him--for the time being. It was enough that the ancient elf was still willing to give them his company and thoughts, but they would keep close watch on him in the coming days to ensure that he did not lose his way amidst a fog of his own making.

~*~*~*~

Morning came with subdued flare to Middle-Earth several days later. Her gentle touch of pale yellow light found the trio from Lindon already stirring, their minds turned toward the care of their horses. Elrond and Gil-galad worked with fervor, sharing duties and speaking to each other and their animals. They praised the soft birth of the day, and the gentle breeze that flowered in the woods. Snatches of song left their lips as they brushed their horses' coats smooth or carefully worked the night's tangles from manes and tails. It promised to be a pleasant day, and the two were infected with the joy of it.

In contrast, Glorfindel worked in methodic silence, save for the gentle words he offered his mare. It seemed that his whole being was in the rhythmic circling of the curry comb and the long, slow strokes of the brush. His hands danced and lingered on the shining chocolate coat of the horse, sometimes catching in the silvery white strands of her mane.

Gil-galad and Elrond let him be. Today, they would ride into the first pass, then camp at the entrance to the second. The next morning would see the three rising to seek the clearing of which the merchant's account spoke. What the future held for them after that, none dared to guess.

~*~*~*~

"It is here," Elrond said, holding back the springy branch of a young tree as he peered out of the woods. His mount hung her head over his shoulder, waiting patiently as he signaled the others, who were also on foot.

"You're certain?" Gil-galad asked as he arrived, one hand placed lightly on his gelding's neck. Long fingers twirled the horse's mane as Gil-galad looked anxiously past Elrond into the stand of trees beyond. "From the account, I would have thought there would be a path."

"There probably was, in years past," the younger elf answered. "The growth is young and the underbrush fairly sparse in comparison to the rest of the forest. There are also several game trails further in, all going the same direction." He leaned in close to his king to whisper in the other's ear before Glorfindel--who was still some distance away--came close enough to easily hear them. "I saw the cairn, Gil-galad. This is the pass."

As Glorfindel neared the pair, Elrond straightened and announced in a normal voice, "It has been some centuries since the merchant who drew up the account came this way. I doubt that the pass has been used since then." He looked anxiously at Glorfindel, wondering what the other would think if he had noticed the brief lull in conversation, but the blonde elf showed no signs of having heard even Elrond's statement about the merchant. His forest green eyes were fixed on the play of light and shadow against the soft, musty forest floor visible just beyond Elrond. An idle breeze stirred the elf's long, golden locks, and web-thin strands of hair tickled his pale face.

Without saying a word, Glorfindel pushed past the tree branches and into the forest.

Elrond and Gil-galad exchanged a silent glance as their friend made his way up the pass, his mare following close behind, seemingly forgotten. Elrond held the branches aside for Gil-galad and the king's mount, then turned with his own horse to join the small company on its final trek to the tomb, fearing and longing for the moments soon to come.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

Bird song filtered faintly through the forest as Glorfindel stood over the raised stones of his tomb. Under the twilight, the elf was etched in shimmering silver and pale gold, a solemn watchman comes to the side of a long abandoned grave.

Elrond and Gil-galad stood vigilant several yards further back. Their horses remained quiet under the shelter of the trees, waiting patiently on their masters' whims. There was nothing else to be said or done, and both elves and horses seemed to have equal knowledge of this.

After over a century of wandering in an ill-defined realm of life after death, Glorfindel was at last being given a chance to part the mists as though he were pulling back a shroud from his own face. The cairn rose up before him, its stones shining dully in the sunlight like tarnished steel. He supposed that perhaps, somewhere underneath them, the armor of the House of the Golden Flower did indeed lie tarnished, protecting a body that had long since slipped away into dust and bones. Was there still any sign beyond the grave, and perhaps that armor, that the body within was his? Or was there a body at all? He could not help but wonder, for he knew that this cairn was raised long miles from the pass where he had fallen. Though all had been careful in speaking of the fall of Gondolin and its great warriors in Glorfindel's presence, he knew that Thorndor had returned his remains to the grieving Gondolindrim. He knew that Eärendil had watched Tuor raise the stones over the body of a lost friend. He knew that the elves' voices had been raised in anguished lament for the passing of yet another noble heart. All of this had taken place centuries ago in the pass of Cristhorn, before Morgoth was once again defeated and the Valar caused the sea to swallow the greater part of Beleriand.

Gondolin was lost to all elves, and perhaps most of all to Glorfindel, who had perished for it, and yet could at times barely distinguish the phantom city in his mind from the cobbled streets he walked in Lindon. How then, was this piece of his past preserved, sequestered in the Blue Mountains and feathered with sunlight and flowers? How then, had it entered the lore of Lindon, and so the lore of Elrond? How then, had it come to pass that six centuries after his fall, the warrior of Gondolin would come to look upon the memorial to his sacrifice?

Feelings warred within the ancient being, a conflict of memory and impressions stirring the forces of loss and confusion. Again, Glorfindel could see the Balrog. He heard the wailing cries behind him as mothers clutched their children close and begged the Lady to preserve the young ones. He could feel the impossible heat of the horned monstrosity, licking at his flesh as though the very bowels of the earth had come to do Morgoth's bidding. A whip cracked and swept over his head, missing him by a fraction of an inch thanks to the warrior's instinct that bid him throw himself down. The massive claw of the beast burned Glorfindel's vision, and the elf warrior scrambled to his feet again, sword raised against the demon and a prayer to the Valar on his lips.

Behind the warrior, walls crumbled and burned as flaming behemoths overcame the flagging forces of Gondolin. As though he were two elves, Glorfindel could see the city as it stood in its final hours, its streets infested with orcs and other foul creatures, its king defying flight and fear as he stood in despair upon his tower.

Still, the Balrog was before Glorfindel, and as Gondolin burned at his back-all true sense of time and place lost-the head of the House of the Golden Flower raised his sword again, crying, "Elbereth Gilthoniel!" The breath of the stars flashed over the bright blade and smote the eyes of the Balrog, who shied back, and Glorfindel launched himself at the beast, grappling with it, lost in the desperate knowledge that at all costs, the children must be saved. What little survived of Gondolin lay in those innocents.

Then the rocks became sharp beneath Glorfindel's lightly booted feet. His great sword drove into the body of the Balrog, and was entrapped. Lost in the battle, Glorfindel's only thought was of his enemy's defeat at any cost, and his hand fell to the dirk at his side. With a swift movement, the elf snatched the weapon from his belt and buried it in the burning creature's belly.

Flames blossomed in Glorfindel's face, and he staggered, but the Balrog had a firm grip on him. The elf's feet slipped precariously close to rock's edge. A sudden jerk of the Balrog's dying body overbalanced the both of them, and drew Glorfindel into the depths of the abyss.

The heat of the Balrog's flames and its death throes slew Glorfindel long before their bodies crashed into the boulders far below. It was a limp, ravaged body that fell beside Thorn Sir.  
Glorfindel had seen it. He remembered now, being lifted away from his form as if carried in a massive hand. That had been the feeling of Námo's power. The elf's final glimpse of Arda had been the sight of Thorndor grasping the burned corpse in his talons and sweeping up towards the waiting elves, his wings shimmering burnished gold in the faint light.

In that moment of recollection, Glorfindel knew with greater certainty than ever before that he had died. He recalled the words that Námo had spoken when he still languished in the Halls of Waiting. "You will be needed, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. The first test has been passed, and there is yet much that you may do for the children of Ilúvatar."

Under the dimming purple sky, Glorfindel shuddered as the world pressed in about him. He had not stopped all those centuries ago. He never truly ended. The time lost to him in life was a bridge, one that it was necessary he cross, for whatever reasons. Though Morgoth twisted Ilúvatar's song, the thread of it that had been woven for Glorfindel was never cut. It had merely changed. Glorfindel would continue to do his part, to join the song in whatever capacity he might. His voice had been stricken for a time by confusion and doubt, but there was still joy to be had in the world, and that joy would buoy his spirit until he was next called from Middle-earth.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is troubling Glorfindel, and the only solution lies with a grave lost since the First Age. Features Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Elrond.

Gil-galad watched closely as Glorfindel reached out a hand, its pale skin translucent in the waning light. Branch-like fingers swept gently across the cold apex of the cairn, like the roots of a tree testing soil only to find their way obstructed. Then, just a tree would upon finding the route blocked, Glorfindel traced a new pattern with his fingers, lighting upon the shivering face of a golden flower. A smile came to his lips as he stroked the partially furled petals, and Gil-galad heaved a sigh of relief.

In that moment, the high king knew that Glorfindel had found his place.

An instant later, Elrond knew it as well, for Glorfindel turned away from the flowers and the grave, and his jeweled eyes met the storm-tossed seas of Elrond’s worried gaze. Upon seeing the contentment sparkling in his friend’s eyes, the young herald broke into a wide grin. Gil-galad could see that it was all Elrond could do not to rush forward and sweep Glorfindel into a crushing hug.

“I have made my peace,” Glorfindel declared, his voice soft and bright as a cardinal’s. He walked to his friends, arms outstretched, and embraced them both in sincere affection. As he held them close, the pair heard him say, “It is important to remember what went before, but so too is it important to know what passes now. I’ve dear friends beside me, and many miles yet to travel, now that I have passed over the first bridge.”

~*~*~*~

The trio began their journey back to Lindon that night. Eärendil shone brightly, leading the stars on their great voyage as they lent their light and solace to Arda. Once in the wide pass that would direct them home, the three elves rode abreast. Their eyes were most often on the sky and each other, for they knew that their horses could easily find their way.

As the hours wore on, Elrond gave more and more of his attention to the golden-haired elf at his right. Something had changed in Glorfindel. A shadow had lifted, and Elrond could not remember ever having seen the other appear so bright. An image flashed in the elf’s mind, one of a great lord shining in glory and strength, as though the light of Valinor were mixed in his very blood. He smiled as he recognized the fair face and the deep green eyes. Indeed, Glorfindel’s journey was far from over if such might was yet his. Though still young, Elrond knew enough of prophecy to see the vision for what it was.

“Will we have need of this path again?” Gil-galad asked lightly, interrupting Elrond’s musings. The herald turned to Glorfindel, for that was whom the king addressed.

“No, my lord. I will not travel this path again for the same purposes,” Glorfindel answered peacefully. He smiled again, his features relaxed with contentment. “I no longer have the need to. Let the forest and her creatures hold this land, and not ghosts of days past.”

~*~*~*~

On that same night, two beings watched from Valinor as the elves made their way to the foot of the Blue Mountains. They had long sight, gifted to them by Ilúvatar even before the creation of the world.

The taller of the beings spoke first, lowering his head to regard his companion. “It was necessary that he find the place of his rest, though it be not where it once was.”

From her place stretched full length upon a grassy hillside, his companion gave a soft reply. “You foresaw this.”

“Indeed, for when I first took Glorfindel of the Golden Flower into my halls, I saw what he was to become, just as I saw the grief that would stain his heart.”

Varda leaned her head on an open palm and directed her gaze to Námo, a gentle and knowing smile on her lips. “And so you beseeched Manwë to preserve this piece of Beleriand.”

“Yea, and I caused it to be entered into the books of lore, so that Elrond, who is to be loremaster and a great lord among the Firstborn, would learn something of my designs and guide his friend to salvation,” the prophet of the Valar rejoined.

“And now that salvation has been granted?”

A rare smile curved Námo’s lips as he regarded his sister and queen. “The space will be given to the creatures of the mountains, as Glorfindel has said. It has served its purpose, and no longer need stay in Arda. But the flowers will remain, a reminder of the sacrifices made by Ilúvatar’s children so that his designs may continue on.”

As Námo spoke, Varda slowly twined a garland of blooms into her long hair. She continued winding the strands, as though in that action she could see the final fate of the three elves she and her brother had been watching over the past weeks. “What of Gil-galad?” she asked, a light, teasing note in her voice.

Námo laughed and sat down beside his sister, lifting up a lock of her hair and beginning a braid of his own. “Nothing was needed to ensure his role in this, save stubbornness and the dedicated mind of a creative king—both attributes with which he is already blessed.”

~*~*~*~

As Námo had promised, Glorfindel’s cairn left Middle-earth. Without the protection of the Valar to ensure its preservation, the grave’s stones slowly withered under the determined touch of time. Winds and waters carved the rocks and bore them away, sometimes singly, and sometimes in torrents. Yet, the golden flowers always remained. Gil-galad carried the secret of the grave to his own rest, and all knowledge of the cairn was lost to Middle-earth when Elrond and Glorfindel sought Valinor in the West. After their passing, still the golden flowers bloomed, layering the forest in enchanted peace, remembering in their silent way a tall elven lord, powerful amongst the Firstborn, and beloved of the Valar.


End file.
